


A Requiem in Cold Steel

by rikotch



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, 英雄伝説 閃の軌跡 | Sen no Kiseki | The Legend of Heroes: Trails of Cold Steel (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Bad ending of Cold Steel II, Dragonborn - Freeform, Gen, Insane Fie, M for Murder, Stabby Fie, Yandere assassin Fie
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-04-08 05:49:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19100959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rikotch/pseuds/rikotch
Summary: Fie Claussell had always wanted to find a family. And she found a new one when the old one died. But when a contract reunites her with a long-fallen comrade, a Legend unfolds as she vows to protect him this time. No matter the cost.





	1. Chapter 1

### PROLOGUE - A New Home

> One year. It has only been that long.
> 
> But a lot can change in a person during that time.

_Kill her._

Those two words repeated itself in her head. Several times her hand instinctively fallen upon her two daggers. Several times her heart ached with pity for the orphans. Several times her eyes darkened as the children shared to her how they lost their parents.

Through a cold and cruel, never-ending war that bloodied the land.

Much like her own.

Everywhere she went, anywhere she finds herself, war found  _her_. She had spent her entire life living in one. Spent her childhood fighting in one as part of a ruthless mercenary corp. Spent the early days of her career preventing one.

And now she was supposed to care for one in a country she had no idea even existed? Hilarious.

Her adolescent years shone like Shining Poms amidst the bleakness. She had spent it surrounded by true comrade-in-arms that would never leave her. They prided themselves as one family, and as one class: Class VII. They were her dearest friends.

It had been one year since they all fell apart — since the first among them had died.

"Do you miss them?" the children asked.

"...Yeah."

She wished she didn't. Not after what happened. And it wasn't like she was going to see them anytime soon.

It had been many nights since she stumbled upon the strange artifact. The information she had of the auspicious item provided little to what power it held- only what price it would fetch for were she to deliver it to her client. It was a golden, cylindrical object, adorned top to bottom with fancy runes and sigils. Two handles jutted out from both ends, and the middle part could be pulled open like a scroll.

She thought little of it. Nothing happened for Aidios knows how long as she gawked at its indecipherable contents. She regretted going through a second reading when the large mysterious artifact of unknown origin started to glow, however.

First, it was burning incandescence that blurred her vision. Second, was darkness. Pitch and abyssal. The third thing she knew, she was diving headfirst into vast open water.

'Riften' was what the residents called the place. It was the nearest settlement from the lake she was hurtled into. Although, calling it a city would have been generous. All around her stood dilapidated wooden houses, weathered shop stalls, and alcohol-flooded kegs. Old planks constituted as walkways for its inhabitants, most of whom were muscular, bearded men whose livelihoods consisted of fishing and competing who could guzzle down the most mead.

There were more barrels of mead than there were people. Sara would be rolling in her grave.

Oh, and the entire place reeked of human waste and rotten scum. The town proper itself was only one staircase above the neglected and antiquated canal that bisected the city. Quite a genial place, if she had to say.

"What did you do after you arrived?" a boy asked her. Their leader, no doubt. He was taller than the rest of the lot, and naturally, they all herded near him. Their cute eyes glimmered with fascination and awe.

 _Maybe there's hope for these kids, after all,_  her mind assured. Although, this would be the last time she would see such youthful optimism. Not after what she had planned to do.

This land wasn't Erebonia. It was an aptly warm and lovely nation called Skyrim. The iron railway tracks she had grown to live with and love were nonexistent. Instead, her sights feasted upon somber tundra mountains and the eye-searingly red forests of the Rift, located in the southeastern regions. The capital was far out to the northwest.

She had asked where the nearest train station was but was met with utter confusion. Now she wasn't sure trains were even invented here yet.

That was the last time she was going to ask the locals for directions, though. She did NOT want to find herself in another brothel.

Nor did she want to…  _appropriate_ another man of all his gold when he had to lead her someplace isolated and asked her, in her face, if she was a stripper. Or worse.

Another slur and one sexually-harassing drunkard mugged later, and it became clear that she attracted a lot of unwanted attention. Not just because of her alien, silver hair nor her piercing lime eyes, but because of her diminutive stature, pale-dead skin, and supposed foreign race. She'd need a change of clothes soon. Preferably with a hood and some heels.

So in a less technologically developed world filled with wizards, vampires, elves, dark elves, and DRAGONS... humans were racially offended by her height. Wonderful.

Oh, and giant humanoid lizards exist. And cats.

The cats were fine. They were fluffy, furry, and adorable with their long whiskers she just wanted to pull on. They had a funny accent too.

The lizards were slimy and scaly and spoke in a creepily indirect way.

Not racist. She just preferred cats. That's all.

She wasn't in Zemuria. This wasn't her home. Yet she was sitting here: Honorhall Orphanage — huddled next to homeless orphans who would never last a day out in the wilderness.

And she wanted to find out why. That was the reason she had to go.

"Alright, you worthless guttersnipes. Storytime is over. Go to bed," the old matron said, tapping her foot impatiently. "And YOU better leave. Now. Take your filthy boots away from me and NEVER come back. Or else."

What a charmer. No wonder they call her Grelod the "Kind". She was just about to leave anyway.

"Okay, everyone. Say goodbye to Miss Fie now," another woman said.

"Goodbye, Miss Fie!" the orphans recited in unison. Their faces wore a mix of heartwarmingly forced smiles.

Well… it's not like she couldn't leave them a little farewell present, right?

Fie turned to the young woman. Constance Michel if her memory served her right. In contrast to the cranky hag, Constance was actually what one would describe as 'motherly'. She was a volunteer worker for the orphanage out of sheer kindness from her heart.

She would take care of the kids, Fie thought.

"Miss Fie, thank you so much for visiting us during your stay. The kids were always so happy when you were around telling your stories," Constance said with a beaming smile plastered between her dimpled cheeks. "Will we ever see you again?"

"Someday. Not soon, though."

It was then that a malicious grin danced on her lips. Something glinted in her eye as Grelod retreated further into the orphanage.

"I got a present for you guys," Fie said.

"Oh? What is it?"

"You'll find out. Close your eyes."

Constance Michel looked puzzled but obeyed. That was going to be the last of what she saw of her.

With silent footsteps, Fie brushed past the woman towards the kitchen. Her mind clear and her face blank, she nonchalantly pulled the curious object from the shelf.

A steel cutting knife.

_What are you still doing here-_

_What are you doing with that-?!_

She heard Grelod scream. Or thought she did. She couldn't make out anything through the adrenaline ringing in her ears or the seething red in her eyes.

She couldn't see the despair in the old crone's face as her skull was slammed to the wall. She couldn't hear the banging of knives as the matron's neck was nailed into the hardwood of her beloved orphanage. She couldn't savor the scalding heat of her finely-aged blood as it gushed down from her crucified corpse.

Fie wordlessly strolled towards the exit. A guard had come running, but he left just as quickly when a small purse of septims fell into his hands. She didn't feel guilty at all.

Behind her, the children cheered. She didn't care. Grelod the Kind was dead.

Nobody had any right to treat other people as worthless. Not to orphans. Not to her. Not orphans  _like_ her.

Riften was a stinking place that reeked of human waste and rotten scum. It was a genial place if she had to say. She was glad to leave. She never planned on staying.

Skyrim wasn't her home.

Here, she couldn't rely on her allies nor her strength to protect them; she was alone. Here, she was not a Bracer that supported the people; the people around her were ungrateful, self-centered, and self-righteous piles of shit. Here, she could be anything she wanted to be in order to survive.

She wasn't home. So why should she care for anyone else besides herself?


	2. Chapter 2

"...Where…?"

Fie woke up to the stench of muddy water and dusty air. A cursory glance around informed her that she was in a small cabin. Decorating the place were dirty piles of rags, an ash-burned fireplace, shattered candle places, and three kneeling persons with sacks over their heads.

Quaint.

"Awake, are we?" a deep, feminine voice said from behind her.

Slouched atop a bookcase was a middle-aged woman. She had ages on her, but her black form-fitting armor clung to her lithe frame. Belted on her waist was a cold, curved dagger. The violet blade gleamed in the dark room.

"Ahh, those eyes. Killer indeed…" the woman said. "It really does suit the infamous 'Butcher Girl.'"

"..."

"And the silence… exquisite. I daresay I'm a fan."

"Where am I?"

"Does it matter? You're very much warm, dry… and still very much alive."

...Why can't be she dead instead?

The woman continued. "That's more than can be said for old Grelod. Hmm?"

Grelod…?

"Butchered in her own orphanage? Spectacular. It was, sincerely, a good kill, I'll give you that. Old crone had it coming. And you saved a group of urchins, to boot."

Oh.

"Ah, but there is a slight…  _problem_." The woman's leg dangled on the edge of the shelf. She sat up straighter, but her voice stayed nonchalant.

"Problem?" Fie asked.

"You see, a little boy was looking for the Dark Brotherhood. For me, and my associates."

A band of master assassins, as she's heard rumors of.

"You're gonna kill me then?" She didn't even glare.

"Ah, no no. He wanted poor old Grelod dead. It was an official contract and she was, by all rights, OUR kill. A kill… that you stole."

The woman's hands joined together on her knee as she rested her chin on top of it. "A kill you must repay."

...Easy enough.

"I'm sure you've noticed our guests. I've "collected" them from… well, that's not really important, hmm? I wouldn't want to waste your time."

She turned around. The kidnapper hadn't confiscated her gunswords, but she drew them anyway.

"Go on then. I'll just observe… and admire."

The woman's voice echoed in her head. She walked to the captives with firm steps, but her hands never stopped shaking.

Something… inside her told her to stop. Insisted that she turn back and shoot the assassin. Urged her to break away from this cycle of killing she's made for herself. To do the right thing.

...As if she's innocent enough to do that. Not after what she's done. Not after what she failed to do. She observed the victims.

The first was a slender woman with fuschia hair. She was annoying, boisterous, and loved to drink. An instructor that loved teaching in unorthodox methods. Most of which involved punching and kicking them while they were down. An adviser that tricks her students into buying her alcohol in exchange for grades. A cheeky woman that would blame her class whenever her fellow teachers found out and lambasted her for it.

Her sneer was obnoxious, but Fie loved her like a sister. Class VII loved her like their surrogate mother.

And they cried her name when she stayed behind to buy them time to escape. She fell off a ledge of that infernal castle and burst her head on the hard ground. Then, she was dead.

The second was another woman, blue hair this time. She was a noble knight who wielded broadswords as tall as her. Pure-hearted and awkward, she loved to swim and fight. Those two activities were probably the only things that went through her thick skull. She was friendly and ever-so-polite to her and the rest of Class VII. She would support them with all her might but would scold them whenever they did something unjust.

Fie disliked her at first— believed that they could never get along. But that all changed quickly enough. She became her best friend.

But being her best friend didn't stop her from running a gunsword through her body. She had to. The curse of Erebonia had seeped into the woman. It corrupted her. Destroyed her. It was Fie's mercy that saved her.

And now, she was dead.

The third… was a crying little girl. She had silver hair and lime-green eyes that flared red from her constant sobbing. She was noisy. So noisy. And all she would do was call out the names of her friends. Her family.

She could only yell and weep, while her family died one after the other.

She was disgusting. Pathetic and weak. She couldn't even stand and fight to protect those she cared about. Even if they were dead, she just begged them to come back. Begged them to save her. Begged them to take her away from this alien land that she found herself in.

Begged for them to bring her home.

The girl shouted, at the top of her lungs, to the entire world, how much she hated being here. How much she missed her homeland. How much she wanted to see her friends again. How much she wanted to sleep beside their graves again. How much she craved for that bitter loneliness again.

She cried and bawled and wept and wailed and sniveled and whined. It wouldn't stop.

She wanted it to stop. She aimed the muzzle of her gun at the girl's head and fired. But the thundering crack of her bullets did nothing to stop the sounds of sobbing. It burned into her mind. It wouldn't leave but kept getting louder and louder. Her ears ached from the endless crying, and her throat inflamed from all the screaming.

The desperation clogged her thoughts. The anxiety scorned her being. The girl still stood there, clawing at her eyes. It. Just. Won't. Stop.

Fie pulled the trigger again, but nothing fired. The mind-numbing blaring had finally stopped. She dropped to her knees, listless. Her face felt damp, and she was bleeding tears.

The entire shack reeked of death. Of blood, and of human waste. Yet there she was, breathing it all in, without a care in the world.

Because this wasn't  _her_  world.

"So that's what it does. Interesting," the assassin behind her remarked. "Three victims… one contract. Quite the overachiever."

Muffled footsteps approached her. She expected a knife to her back… but it never came.

"While some kill to please, others kill to take. Most of them would say that after the first, it would become easier. But you, my dear girl, are what some would call… a prodigy.

"You kill... to live. It doesn't matter if it's a child nor an elderly woman. You kill to fill that little void that's left in your heart. Because if you didn't, you are afraid that that void would kill  _you_."

The woman extended a gloved hand towards her. Her eyes hinted that of a smile. "But my order— my family — kindly welcome those like you. Those that feel lost. Those that live without a purpose other than to kill those which haunt their very beings. And believe me… we kill  _a lot._

_"_ Allow me to officially extend to you an invitation to join the Dark Brotherhood. Although I suppose we can already agree on your answer."

Fie could only nod her head weakly.

"Then… sleep. My dear sister."

A flash of purple light. A crash of mystical energy. In front of her, a figure shrouded in black robes appeared out of nowhere. A hand covered her face, and the red tainted darkness was all she could remember before overwhelming drowsiness knocked her unconscious.

"Sleep… for your new life awaits us all."

**PROLOGUE - A New Home - END -**


	3. Chapter 3

### ACT 1 - A New Hope

Kill, kill, and kill again— everything else was optional. The food here sucked. It was cold, bland, and hard. Nothing but tough meats, moldy cheese, tasteless soups, and watery ale. The vegetables were of poor freshness as if what the taverns serve were just crumbs the rich leave for the rest. The beds were even rougher. If they didn't stink of bodily fluids, they'd be made of itchy fur and uncomfy leather. Sometimes from stone. Quite literally.

The locals were such a fun crowd too. Not as scummy as Riften, only twice as racist. She couldn't even take two steps in the city itself before two Nords stopped their feuding to instead sneer at her.

At least she didn't need to stay. Their client was supposed to meet her in a meadery outside the city walls. Or rather, a dog of her client.

And a dog he was. Not only was he in debt to a criminal tycoon, but he was also working obediently, all hours of the day, as a slave to this shitty pub.

Still, she pulled up her hood more when he approached. It wasn't necessary, as aside from the band of skeevers scurrying the floorboards, the bar lay empty.

"I'll make this quick…" he started. He had probably introduced himself at some point, but Fie could only remember his name rhyming with "callous."

Which he was. Couldn't he see she was still savoring her frankly stale bread?

"Maven wants this douchebag indisposed. Permanently. Doesn't matter how; only when, and that's tonight while he's staying in his house inside Whiterun."

A pouch of gold dropped on the table. Fie took her time counting the coins while sweat trickled on the man's face.

Nine-hundred fifty. Their standard rate was one thousand septims flat. Piercing green eyes stared, making the man flinch. And they call  _her_  pathetic.

"Okay, look… help a man out, will you? It's just fifty septims. I promise I'll put in a good word to Maven for you."

How he thought stealing from his boss was such a great idea, she didn't care. She had a job to do. Rocky bread in hand, Fie silently moved towards the exit.

Before she left, that projectile-class piece of wheat was hurled right into a shelf stocked with mead. It shattered the bottles on impact.

"Mallus! What was that noise?!"

She snuck out and closed the door behind her. Inside, she heard the owner of the meadery shout.

It was a pleasantly quiet evening too. The stupidly big twin moons were beating down on her with their brightness while the fresh air smelled of honey mead and horse crap. She hid her face behind her scarf and strolled to the city gates.

So far, she had to admit Whiterun was the  _least_  intolerable place in Assrim. Excluding the obvious racism, the people were friendly enough, partly due to the fact it had a trade-focused economy. A great blacksmith supposedly lived here, and the general peacekeeping was handled by a guild of hardened warriors called the Companions.

And she did flat out ignore the guards. How drunk were they to let her, an assassin dressed in clearly assassin-of-the-Dark Brotherhood attire, inside?

Whatever. She was already at the roof of the house callous guy specified.

'Breezehome' was a simple structure made of easily pierced wood. True to its name, the walls would break from the gust of her foot if she tried. It had two floors and, fortunately, had an open window she could use. She'd rant about the lack of security, but she probably just had high standards. She's had to infiltrate mansions during her time as a jaeger mercenary. And that was when she was still a kid.

This one? She could probably do it blindfolded.

The night breeze blew past her, and Fie let her hood down, her bright silver hair flowing with it. She should probably tie it up again. It was a pain to wash off the blood.

She shivered. She could never get used to the climate here. She liked the robe-ish assassin clothes she was given mainly because of that; plus she had her dark red scarf.

...It was a dark green scarf, actually. Again, it was a pain to wash off the blood. Detergents weren't really invented yet.

This would be her seventh contract by now. Her seventh official kill. Minus all the bandits, nobles, thugs, and mercenaries that stood in her way. Grelod might have counted as well. It had been months since she left that god-forsaken orphanage.

She had to admire her handiwork, though. Stabbed in the neck, shoulders, arms, and legs and then pinned, almost crucified, to the walls of her orphanage. Astrid did say it was spectacular. Her next kills were of equal splendor.

Bitch-ass miner? Buried in her own mine when it caved in. Quite unfortunate.

Paranoid mill owner? Choked in his sleep, and then ground to paste in the mills. He tasted sweet.

Emancipated beggar? Strangled to death with his sister's necklace. No one would miss him.

...It was nearly time, but she wanted to feel the wind on her face again. It reminded her of the highlands back at home. She should probably pray now if anything.

Hesitating just a small bit, Fie slowly drew out her ARCUS. It was cold. Powerless. Probably from the lack of orbal energy in this world. The disk-like device had already been dormant when she first came here, but she kept it anyway— if only for the memories.

"Sara. Laura. Alisa. Machias. Elliot. Millium. Jusis. Emma. Gaius…

"...Rean. Crow."

Even if they were dead, she would never forget their names. She's found a new family now. It wasn't like her first, nor her second, but it was family. In the loosest sense.

She'd give them up in a knife-stroke if she could go back home, though.

"I'm sorry. I'll come to see you guys soon. I promise."

Eyes closed, Fie pulled her hood back up and swung through the window.

It was best to finish quickly, but inferring whatever information she can of her target was vital for an easy kill. Looking around the bedroom, she could already tell that he was a total slob. Strewn clothes everywhere, septims scattered on the floor, ruined bedsheets— everything was a mess.

What wasn't however, were the well-kept pair of swords hanging on the wall. They were of a familiar shape: Akaviri blades— or in her old world, katanas. But they felt more intimate than that, and she couldn't tell why.

It doesn't matter. What Astrid warned her of the man was accurate, at least. That he was part of an ancient order of warriors called The Blades, and that the Thalmor were after his guts. Fie guessed the reason he was still alive was because of his high rank within the Imperial Army and because of his feared 'power.' They called it 'Thu'um' or 'The Voice.'

As in, literally the power of his voice. He can use it to conjure gouts of flame or ice or whatever, similar to how Arts worked back in Zemuria, but with a lot more shouting.

It gave her the idea of what her murder method was now. Fie ripped the katana off the plaque and made her way downstairs. She could only hope that this  _'Dragonborn'_  was as dangerous as they hyped him up to be.

But apparently, being born out of the fuckery of a dragon and a man didn't stop him from falling face down unconscious in his living room.

Another deadbeat, she thought. Even with all his power, he was nothing more than waste in this wicked society. That also didn't stop him from being targeted by a measly crime lord.

He was pissed drunk if the stench didn't give it away. His spiky black hair was laced with grease and ale. His leather coat was tattered, but Fie could see the glint of black armor underneath. The design, along with the steel greaves and gauntlets he wore were a trademark of The Blades. He was the man, alright.

A dead man. But still.

If she wanted a quick and clean kill, she had to get past the armor, which was a piece of sweet roll considering how they tend to leave out certain areas exposed. Tender areas like the throat, for instance. Exactly as she wanted.

Fie turned the unconscious man around and pricked his neck with the tip of the katana. She just needed to plunge the blade in and be done with it. Simple as that.

…

Life was cruel sometimes.

Her grip lost, the tachi fell to the floor with a clang.

She promised she would never forget his name. But at that moment, she was trying her damndest to say it aloud.

"...Rean…?"

A blue luster glimmered from his side. And so did from hers. With a faint trail of light connecting the two, their ARCUS resonated with one another.


	4. Chapter 4

She thought him dead— gored through the abdomen by a demonic spear. Heard him say his last words: live on without him. They had to abandon his corpse, and Crow's, to escape the Vermillion Knight's wrath.

But his face was right there; distressed and dirty, but exactly as she remembered.

"Rean…?"

The hilt of his tachi clattered to the floor, the noise causing him to stir. Rean's heavy eyelids trembled, and just a tiny bit did she hope they would open just so she could see the kindness in his purple eyes again. Their ARCUS hummed, but she couldn't hear it past the sound of his animated breathing.

She checked his pulse. Alive— unlike when she last cradled him in her arms. His chest was heaving, but whole— no gaping hole through. How she wished she could hear his heartbeat too. She embraced his hand, and a self-indulgent idea came to her mind.

It was warm when she patted it on her head.

Fie smiled. She missed his smile too— but this was enough. Or maybe too much. Her tears were overflowing, and she found it hard to keep still. She wanted to coddle him, more so when his lips parted.

"...Fie…" he said dreamily.

His voice was the same too. Maybe just a bit deeper.

"Yes— I'm here…"

She was. Rean wasn't alone anymore; she was there with him. They were together, and now, nothing will change that.

...But out of all the times she wanted a sword run through her back, this wasn't one of them. His head banged on the floor as she was forced to jump forward.

Fie tumbled and dodged the iron blade as it came in strategic swings. Vaulting atop a bookcase, she leaped over her attacker. Her hood was tattered and cut, but more importantly, Rean was alone on the floor— not in her warm arms. Cold eyes narrowed at their intruder.

"Another assassin. Great. You guys never learn, do you?" the steel-clad warrior said. She was, as the locals would put it: a strong Nord woman. "In my honor as housecarl, you shall NOT lay a finger on him."

She held her shield up defensively while she edged closer to Rean. His poor nose was forced to breathe in the taint of her boots as it dared to step near him. No wonder he was still unconscious— her feet probably smelled of sweat and whatever filthy soap muscle-headed, iron-tittied cows like her bathed in.

But as Festus said, even beef smelled delicious when burned to a crisp. Fie's hand crackled with electricity.

That small display of hostility presumably spooked the housecarl as she lunged forward, her sword coming down in a wide arc. A feint— no trained swordsman would swing their weapon like that in a tight space. Fie moved slightly to the left.

She guessed right; the tip never reached the floor. Instead, the woman spun and attempted to bash her face with her shield. A gloved hand intercepted it, but Fie let the momentum carry her into her own roundhouse kick. It connected with the woman's neck with a leathery thump.

Landing on her hands, Fie booted twice, one high and one sweep. The first was blocked by the shield, and she cut herself when a sword parried her leg. She didn't care. Within the same movement, she tucked in and launched both feet to the woman's chin.

Violet arcs trailed in the air with her somersault. Her hands fell upon the woman's shoulders, and a wave thunder burst forth around her prey. She didn't wail, so Fie dug her knee right into her face. The housecarl staggered back. Singed— but very much alive. She held her shield up again and charged forward.

Fie rolled to the side, but in an unexpected move, the woman discarded her sword and grabbed her by the ankle. Her back shattered wood and stone, and she was tossed upwards. The floorboards of the bedroom above splintered as she crashed through it.

Regaining her footing on the ceiling, she narrowly dodged an arrow zipping towards her shoulder. Another one fired from the woman's bow shortly after, but she froze in midair with a gust of ice.

Jumping down, she hurled the frozen arrow back and followed up with a dropkick. Both were blocked by the shield. Spinning once, Fie held out her hand and tried to debilitate the woman with point-blank squalls of frostbite to her head.

Fie was simply shoved back; the frost attack had no effect whatsoever. The woman defended again, her shield a steadfast rampart between her and Rean.

Tenacious, that one. This was why Fie hated dealing with Nords. She favored the speed of shock-aspected magic, but the freezing bite of frost spells was more suited for crippling her opponents.

That was not the case when fighting the barbaric numbskulls. Their tough skin was as thick and impenetrable to the cold as their dumb racist snides. Fie could use fire spells to conserve her magicka, but she didn't want to risk hurting Rean.

Although…

The woman pounded her sword into her shield. "What's the matter? I can do this all night," she boasted.

Fie scoffed in response. "...No, you won't."

A bolt of arcane fire flung from her hand. It dispersed harmlessly on the woman's shield. Futile, but that wasn't her aim. She slung another fireball, this time towards the pillar nearby. The impact seared a crack in the wood, and the heat burned off the rest, causing it to crumble.

She just needed to make sure Rean was okay, right? Breezehome was too shoddy a place to call his home, anyway.

Several more jets of fire burst from her fingertips. It burned everything: the cupboards, bookshelves, tables, and the stairs. She dodged as the iron sword came down again, but Fie held her back by kicking a fiery chair at her.

The entire place was ablaze. Smoke filled her lungs and irritated her eyes, yet she stood there in the wake of her arson. She waited. And watched. The two combatants stared each other down, but time was ticking. The flames had reached the roofs, sending pieces of it crashing. She still stood there, motionless.

She struck when the housecarl bailed and rushed over to her master. With her opponent distracted, Fie stabbed a dagger into the woman's calf.

She would have taken advantage and countered, but the effects were immediate. Her arm halted mid-thrust, and a bright green haze covered her body. She dropped to the floor. Fie didn't consider herself a sadist, but the terror and desperation on the woman's face brought a smile to her lips.

Poisons weren't her thing. It offered no benefit other than making her assassinations even more effortless— cheapening the kill. Despite that, she laced a throwaway knife on the rare occasions paralysis would have made things hilarious. Like watching a Khajiit drown slowly in a lake in place of a cat. Or in this case, a cow immolated alive in her own pen.

But she couldn't stay— not with how it was an inferno here and she felt sweaty. She hefted Rean up, and she chuckled at how tall and heavy he was- probably because of his armor and that he grew a few more riges in height. She barely reached his shoulders.

Thankfully, the smoke neutered his putrid alcoholic scent. Wrapping him in her arms, Fie carried him outside where the night air was crisp and fresh. Scorched debris blocked the entranceway behind them, and the house collapsed. It lit up Whiterun like a goddamned burning hay pile.

Good riddance.

The nearby residents had come running, and they were staring cautiously at the two strolling out of the burning building. Several guards already had their weapons drawn too. Far too many for Fie to fight past without painting the whole city red. And it wasn't like she'd let go of Rean to do that.

She was not the type to curse— she preferred creatively made expletives. But shit. How much bounty did arson go for, again?

"Halt! By order of the Jarl, stop right there," the bald man said. He was wearing the same yellow clothed chainmail as his compatriots, but Fie recognized him as acting "Commander" of the city guards. Caius, she remembered, and only because it was one letter away from Gaius.

"I have committed crimes against Skyrim and her people yadda yadda yadda— how much do you want?" she yelled. Impatiently and right to the point, and hopefully, they would leave her and Rean alone. She set him down nearby just in case.

She glared when Commander Caius sneered. "I'm afraid that won't work this time,  _assassin_. You see, the person you're holding right there is quite… important, to say the least."

He drew his sword and pointed it threateningly at her head. "Your pitiful bribe would be a peasant's share compared to the reward I'll receive for saving  _him."_

...Why.

"Guards, arrest her! _"_

 _Saving him?_ She was doing just that. Saving him from the loneliness that was consuming him. And now the bastards had the audacity to take him away to  _save him?_

Why was the world so intent on keeping her away from her friends, anyway? They were already apart for more than a year, and now everyone wants to get in the way of their reunion. Was it a hobby? Was it torture? All Fie ever wanted was to see them again.

It was heartless. Even when she found one alive, fate wanted to shred her for it. It was… monstrous.

...But fate wasn't the only monster here.

She grinned. Sudden torrents of wind snuffed out the lights from their torches. All light that was left was from the streams of black Nohval and viridescent Esmelas encircling Fie. Incandescent green tattoos smoldered onto her skin, and the black gusts blurred her form.

The approaching guards hesitated when the air around them cried. It was a howl of terror.

A War Cry.

If Skyrim wanted a bloodbath, then this Jaeger was happy to oblige.

"What are you doing?! Get her!" Caius ordered. "Kill her if you have to. She serves no other purpose than to— "

His words were cut off when his head did.

It hit the pavement with a viscid thud, the blood from the man's neck-less body spurting everywhere. She blew his stupid skull clean off, but that was with her holding back. She didn't want to get brain juice on her fingers just yet.

The streets of Whiterun plunged into chaos. Most ran. Others stayed to fight- she didn't care. The stampede of feet was music to her ears. At least the ignorant halfwits who fled were smart; she would have killed them too. Fie grabbed the blade from the Commander's dead grasps. Another guard had rushed towards her, screaming.

He screamed again when he could no longer feel his legs. His hips were split diagonally through, and he slid off them comically, bleeding profusely. Caius's sword broke, so she grabbed the new one. It met the same fate when it chopped off the arms of two.

"By the Divines… help us…" said one of the rear guards— right before Fie's two severed blades punctured his lungs. She kicked his sizable chin away and dodged a bash from behind. The guard's shield cracked from her fist, and she ripped it out of their hands. Their helmet ruptured and their eyes burst into bloody spectacles when she thrashed the rim of the shield right in their sockets.

Another came close to grazing her. Fie paid him back with unmentionable pain up his unmentionables. His groan was amusing, so she shoved her arm down his gullet and yanked his voice box out. Or she thought it was— she couldn't tell. Did she yank out the right one? It was fragrant and warm and bloody and soft so it probably didn't matter. He was dead.

And so was the rest of Whiterun. Bloodily mutilated with their own weapons, mashed to a pulp on the wall, and arrows skewering out of their knees, they were all dead. It was amazing how easy it was to swat out their lives like the flies they were. Their blood was a charming red on the road. Commander Caius' smug grin was still on his severed head, so she smashed it into a fruity paste under her heel. His cranium ground on her sole, and it was a delightful crunch one would hear when wild animals feasted on your bones.

And the smell, by the Goddess, was breathtaking. Smoke, fire, guts, piss, and blood— lots and lots of blood. It smelled so good she could vomit.

She did. The puke, on the other hand, didn't smell so great. Now she had to face her Rean with THAT in her mouth.

But they were together at last— no more asshats getting in their way. Her Rean would forgive her for the odor; he reeked of alcohol too, after all. That and vomit went hand in hand together according to a drunken Sara.

Fie knelt beside him and caressed his sleeping face. Some red got on his rosy cheeks. She blushed too; it was beautiful on him. She lathered more of it, more and more until he became his most precious. She wanted to lick him like that, his lips probably tasted heavenly. His saliva would be a luscious complement to all the blood.

It was tempting. Fie wanted to tear their clothes off right then and there. It was chilly, but Rean was incredibly warm. She desired to make him hers— no, he was already. But she lusted for more. His loving arms. The muscles he's built. His awkward and gentle smile. His toned chest. Everything.

He was HER Rean. Skyrim can't have ANY of him.

To hell with it. She held his chin and leaned in close. Even without his consent, she wanted to feel his kiss.

It would be their first, out of many to come.

...

"...Alisa…"

Rean slurred out the one name she never wanted to hear. She stopped just before their lips touched, and her breath became uneven. It shocked her out of her trance, and the markings on her body faded away.

That's right. She had Rean, but she could never have his heart. It belonged to someone else. Fie accepted that they could only ever be friends. The best of friends; comrades. Never lovers. But comrades protected each other, so she'll do exactly that.

That was utter bullshit, Fie wanted to mutter. She felt tired; exhausted. That wasn't good. She tried to stand, but her limbs failed her, and she fell on top of Rean.

No, THIS was utter bullshit. If Fie fainted now, she'd be dead by morning. Executed— separated by death once again. Biting her tongue to stay awake, Fie frantically tried to get up. A bit of strength came back to her, but it wasn't enough; it wouldn't be enough for her to escape, much less while carrying Rean.

"Rean…" she pleaded his name. He was her last resort. She desperately called out to him, to spur him awake. She needed him now. Needed his protection. She didn't want to die— not when they just found each other. If it was him, the Dragonborn, he could do something— anything. To protect her, like he always did.

"Please… wake up…!"

Wake up, and save her from the year-long nightmare she's had to live through.

But he didn't. Rean remained blissfully asleep.

Life really was cruel to her. At the very least, she saw his cute face one last time. Maybe that was all she could ever get. Her tears streamed down to his chest before the void lulled her once again into her abyssal nightmare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally done with that bit. Yes. TL;DR of this is basically Yandere Assassin Fie with Dragonborn Rean.
> 
> Here are some terms from Trails of Cold Steel that might help for non-fans:
> 
> Zemuria - Fie's home 'world', but it is mostly just one large supercontinent.
> 
> Erebonia - or 'The Empire' in Zemuria. Also her home country, but she wasn't born there.
> 
> Orbal Energy - the magical energy in her home game. They come in 7 elements: Fire, Water, Earth, Wind, Time, Space, and Mirage.
> 
> Nohval and Esmelas - the scientific terms for Time and Wind orbal energy, respectively. Time is parallel to dark energy in her franchise so you can consider it that, but not directly confirmed so. Both are Fie's natural elemental affinity in gameplay.
> 
> ARCUS - a portable device (similar to a large flip phone) that allows the user to cast 'Arts' or spells in her home game. They also allow the user to form a 'combat link' with another ARCUS user, connecting their thoughts and actions, which let them formulate battle strategies (or follow-up attacks in gameplay) without verbal communication. ARCUS's are also exclusively used by members of Class VII, which Fie is a student of.
> 
> Class VII - Fie Claussell's class in her school, The Thors Military Academy. Rean Schwarzer is a part of it too.
> 
> Vermillion Knight - the finale boss in Trails of Cold Steel II. Think of it like a giant red Gundam suit.
> 
> Jaeger - means Hunter. Groups of mercenaries that would do anything for the right mira.
> 
> Mira - the currency in Zemuria.
> 
> Riges - centimeters
> 
> Gunsword - Fie's weapon of choice. A pair of silver pistols with large knives attached like a bayonet.
> 
> War Cry - a Jaeger's signature skill. It grants the user superhuman physical capabilities at the cost of health points and sometimes sanity. Think of it like a Greater Power in Skyrim terms.
> 
> Feel free to ask if there are some that I missed or if there's anything you were curious about.


	5. Chapter 5

"Rean Schwarzer of the Eight Leaves One Blade school, intermediate rank. I stand ready."

"Delphine Bolar, acting Grandmaster of the Blades. Ready."

The young recruit— their referee, clad in black steel, raised his right hand. Time itself dilated, and the arm that held the beginnings of their spar crashed down in a shimmer of armored flesh. Rean gripped his tachi keenly, still in its sheath for his favored opening strike.

"Begin!"

The words were cut, just as the air did. In one metallic stroke, a blue, crescent wave of energy sliced forward. Shooting through several feet a second, the shining flash threatened to bisect it's target's midsection.

No stranger to ranged spells nor the penchant of her charge to use them, Delphine tumbled forward. The crescent flash of energy glazed harmlessly under her. Landing quickly, she leaped again, further covering the distance between the two. Her twin blades struck down like thunder.

Rean parried the blow, at the cost of some of his balance. His heels scraped on the stone tiles, and it was enough to jar his senses.

His opponent struck twice again, left and right. Rean barely blocked both, but his footing never got better. Her attacks were ferocious, precise enough to aim for his jugulars, yet strong enough to pierce through the tough scales of a dragon.

Delphine furthered her assault. She slashed chaotically, relying more on the reach of her weapons than the weight. The tip missed his nose by a few reges, and he would have been headless if he hadn't used his tachi to block a double sweeping blow aimed at his neck. Not a moment for rest, the relentless assault of blades carried on.

Gasping for breath, Rean was forced to go on the defensive, his footing steadily growing worse. His initial Arc Slash had little restraint; the followthrough left too much of an undesirable delay to his movements. His opponent rightfully punished him for it, and only appended her assault with cuts slanted at unusual angles.

The Grandmaster of the Blades had no form— no discipline. None too dissimilar from his former instructor, Rean realized.

Just like Sara.

...It was when his face smashed against the wall did he realize he had lost himself in those fond memories. Delphine threw him over her shoulder, and  _his_ shoulder ached when he dropped to the floor. He didn't bother to stand up; the granite on his cheek felt less cold than the glaring of the older woman.

"You were distracted, Dragonborn."

Rean sighed. "Yeah. That's on me. Sorry."

Maybe he could take a nap. The floor was comfy. It reminded him of the time when he napped with Fie on the deck of the Courageous.

Emphasis on ' _napped with'_  — even though his classmates, especially Fie, referred to it as ' _slept with'._  Alisa was not particularly impressed with those choices of words. Neither was Laura. Nor Emma. Nor Princess Alfin.

Vivi was, though.

Thank the Goddess they didn't bring it up with Xeno and Leo. The two overprotective Jaegers were rather fond of their surrogate daughter. They would have garroted him off the Infernal Castle if they found out he 'slept' with their girl.

A stomp and a demandingly stern voice shocked him out of his daydream. "Get up!" Delphine shouted. She held the tip of her katana to his nose, looking for all intents and purposes to kill him. Their duel hadn't ended, and like olden warrior tradition, it won't stop until Delphine said it did.

Rean sighed again but obliged. Reminiscing could happen later. He was meeting a friend, after all.

* * *

Sky Haven Temple. Known as a sanctuary for the Blades, the ancient ruin was made of pure stone enchanted with arcane magics. It loomed far above the Reach— giving Rean a wonderful view of the night sky.

There were two moons, one redder than the other, but each painted against a vast sea of black. This sea varied every night; sometimes it would be a jade sea, while on rare occasions, it was a pale hue of yellow. Tonight, however, was stygian.

And, the stars were beautiful.

Beautiful… just like in Zemuria.

"The twin moons are named Secunda and Masser. Said to be the sundered corpse of an ancient god. Meanwhile, the stars are actually holes formed when fellows of that god fled the realm of mortals," a catty voice spoke. "...or something like that."

Standing by the steps of the balcony was a petite girl, robed in the enchanted fabric of mages. The stray lock of cerulean on her hair swayed with the winds of the north. A light yellow dagger was strapped to her waist, but that was the least threatening thing about the dark-skinned girl. For one, her fingernails were sharpened as if claws of a Sabercat. For the other, her narrowed slit-eyes radiated a flash of irritation.

The girl's twitching cat ears and two, long flowing pigtails betrayed her daunting image, however.

Rean sensed her coming before she even set foot in the temple; her muffled prowling was a welcome familiarity for him. But it was nice when she spoke first, and any new trivia she happily shared to him was every bit as helpful as she was.

Still, he couldn't resist the temptation to tease. "Hey, Celine. You're late."

"Got held up at the gates. SOMEONE stuck a stick up that woman's ass," Celine said. Her small shoulders slumped, and she affixed him a blink-less stare. "And I'm pretty sure that was you, idiot."

"Sorry. I'll go talk to Delphine later."

"Not the point, again." Celine sat down beside him. Her knees folded and her arms crossed, she continued to glare at him with her feline pupils. The cute worry adorning her face clashed with her imposing aura, though. "What did you do THIS time?" she huffed.

"If I tell you, you promise you won't bite me?"

"I'll bite you either way, so spill it," the cat-turned-catgirl snarled. Whatever god-like being thought it funny to leave Celine with fangs when they turned her into a human was either incredibly sadistic, or mad.

He was pretty sure there was a Daedra like that here somewhere.

"I was just distracted during sparring, is all," Rean said.

"Distracted with what?"

"...memories of them."

Celine  _did_ bite his hand, just as hard as he expected. The sharpness dug into his skin enough to draw blood, adding an angry bitemark to his list of injuries for the day.

"...I'm still here..." she mumbled before he could pat her head.

She couldn't look him in the eye but instead licked his bleeding hand.

"I know. Thank you, Celine."

It was an exchange they shared countless times.

Cat in heart and soul, Celine purred as he stroked her hair. Her indigo tail wagged peacefully along with the caress of her ears. The night crickets chirped all throughout the mountainous cliffs of Skyrim, and Rean was lucky yet again that he had her by his side.

It's been over a year… since they died.

The last conscious memory burning in his mind was that of being impaled through the chest. The Vermillion Knight killed him. Destroyed his partner Valimar. Rean could only pray it didn't kill his friends as he and Celine were sent adrift through worlds.

It was ironic. Arriving without a sliver of knowledge of the unfamiliar land, the two of them were soon captured by the Imperial Army. The Imperial Legion, as it's called here. Arrested for illegally trying to cross the border of a country they don't even know the name of, it was a miracle they survived their execution.

That was because a freakin' dragon saved their hides.

Cast aside by the local Nords and not a coin to their name, they did what they could to get by. Never in Rean's wildest dreams did he guess his military academy training would get him conscripted in an army from another world.

It wasn't the safest or the cleanest of jobs; definitely bloody. He's killed more soldiers here than he ever thought he would.

"I'm sorry I couldn't protect you…" Celine said weakly, now resting her head on his lap. Her temper gone, she scratched onto his coat— a habit that never left from her days as a cat. "...or Crow. Or Valimar…"

Her violet hair was as feral as her bites, but it reminded him of the silky fur she once had. They felt the same through the brushes of his hand.

"You protected me from that dragon, remember?"

She did— if the tugging on his coat indicated anything.

It was supposed to have been a routine courier job to the Jarl of Whiterun. What wasn't supposed to happen was a dragon attack on the city. The western watchtower had been razed to the ground, and the fiery beast was quickly doing the same for the gates of the hold. Even if he wasn't ordered to, Rean would have helped protect the city anyway.

But, of course, fighting dragons was alien to him. One of the reasons he's taken up honing the 6th form was so that he could have the ranged attack needed to hit the flying monstrosity. It was only because of Celine did they ground the dragon long enough for Rean to sever its wing and impale it through the heart.

"So Dragonborn… having fun without me?" Celine asked.

Although he knew she didn't need to. Celine chuckled teasingly at his bruised cheeks. Her hand cupped over it, and a gentle light shimmered from her palm. Restoration magic.

It completely went against Instructor Beatrix's advice — letting the body heal by itself. But the magic of this world worked differently from Zemurian arts. Or at least, that was his excuse.

By different, he also meant it being more divine in nature. After defeating the dragon attacking Whiterun, the dragon's  _'_ soul' somehow bound to his. However, that worked was a mystery. It turns out Rean was some sort of half-dragon man because of his birthright.

Dovahkiin, the Greybeards told him. Blessed by the Divines with the power to speak the language of Dragons. Destined by fate to one day save Tamriel.

That's how he met Delphine and the Blades, an ancient order of warriors serving the Dragonborn. Their primary objective was to hunt and kill the leader of the dragons. A primordial aspect of time said to bring about the world's destruction— Alduin, the World-Eater.

There was just one problem.

"Any leads on the Elder Scroll?" Rean asked.

"Yup," Celine said. Her ears perked up, and she was swinging her legs in pure excitement. "A mage by the name of Septimus Signus. Cooky, that one. Do humans go crazy as they get old or something?"

"You really wanna know?"

Celine shrugged, content with not solving one of the many mysteries of being human. "Brynjolf's already tracking him down for me. I might have something by next week, so I expect you to NOT be busy," she said. With the way she's baring her fangs, she probably meant it, lest he incurs another wrathful chomp from the impatient girl.

The corners of his mouth winced into a smile. Next Sundas — or Sunday — the legion was supposed to raid another fort near the snowy caps of Winterhold. A dragon was spotted roosting there, so it wasn't like the dragon-slaying Dragonborn could opt-out or something.

And another bite to his poor arm. A week early. "Ow!"

"Be there OR ELSE," Celine yelled, already on to work healing his fresh wound.

"I-I'll see what I can do…"

Rean couldn't blame her for being pissed. After all, this Elder Scroll may well be their one-way ticket home. A relic forged from divergent laws of this universe — rumored to hold knowledge on how to bend space and time to a person's whim. It held the power fling beings like the timeless Alduin through millennia into the future. It was safe to assume they could use the scroll to open a portal back to Zemuria.

It was also the only thing that can help him stop the world-eating dragon from devouring mankind too. So yes, there was a  _slight_  problem.

"You're really gonna stop Alduin?" It wasn't that Celine didn't want him to — Rean knew — but the unfeigned distress on her face made it difficult for him to swallow.

"...I can't just abandon them," he answered after a long pause.

The temptation to run, to leave this forsaken world was unbearable. Even now a year living here, his heart longed for someplace else.

Erebonia. Thors.

Class VII.

But, that was the very reason he couldn't run away. He's already failed to save the world once, and he died for that. He would never allow himself that failure again.

Sensing the determination from his eyes, Celine smiled at him. It wasn't Cheshire, nor frosted with her icy demeanor; it was warm, caring, and understanding. "Gotcha," she said. Her small hands clasped his, and the silence of the night lulled her eyelids shut.

Not at all different from a cat sleeping on his lap.

Out in the cold was hardly the place for a nap, yet he himself leaned back for his own. One hand holding the both of hers, and the other petting her head, it was the closest thing he had for comfort in these bitter lands of another world.

"Goodnight, Celine."

"Goodnight, Rean."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To address concerns, we will be coming back to Fie soon, don't worry. She's still the main character. This is just too much of an important event to NOT show you, so bear with the suspense for now. 
> 
> I also (think?) I fixed the chapter naming scheme by omitting it altogether. The previous ones didn't sit right with me so sorry about that.

Fire. Inferno.

" **YOL TOOR**!"

Rean shouted the words as a gout of flame then burst from his breath. The roaring heat traveled forward, scorching scales and the ground alike. The Frost Dragon charged through it head-on, its winged talons stomping angrily as the clawed feet raked the snow.

It reared its head up, and in a shout of three words, the dragon breathed its own magical breath of ice.

Or it would have if the rope tied to its neck had not been pulled taut. The dragon's breath billowed aimlessly, giving Rean the opening he needed to plunge Dragonbane through its gullet. The beast roared in pain as a jolt of lightning shocked its interiors. Blue blood spurted from its wounds, some of it splashing on his face.

It was weird. Dragons were lizards, right? So why did it burn his skin, like the many times it did before?

Although… what wasn't weird in Skyrim?

Rean sheathed his katana in a reverse grip, his foot dug deep into the snow. Despite the crackling of thunder and the wailing of his quarry, his mind was clear. Shoulders loose and fluid, like his master had demonstrated. Back straight and dignified, like Jusis said it should. Elbows flexed rigid as Laura taught him to. Knees bent like Fie had drill-kicked into his shins.

" _Fifth form: Morning Moon."_

He jumped.

Luminous saws of light and electricity cut towards the sky along with his blade. Dragonbane sheared through the dragon's throat and jaw, it's flesh and bone rupturing like a popped artery. It roared one last time in defiance causing Rean to reel back lest his eardrums burst.

After a moment, the roar faded into an aetherial hum. Spiritual energy cascaded into Rean as the Dragonborn soul residing in him devoured the dragon's soul. It's scaly body disintegrated, leaving only a husk of dragon bone.

The dragon was dead, for good.

Rean felt nothing.

One would think that having his soul empowered with that of a dragon would have overwhelmed him, like two wills tearing each other apart. There weren't any surges of energy, no rapid bursts of strength nor any power-up sequence he had fantasized about when he was a kid.

He felt nothing; only emptiness and disappointment.

Oh well. Job done. The rambunctious cheering of his fellow soldiers was a reward on its own. No one died, and his plan to tie the dragon by the neck went off without a hitch. All that was left was to garrison the fort and —

They weren't alone.

On reflex, Rean dodged before he could order his men to take cover. The second he did, something pierced the snow-covered ground beside him. And then another. Like metallic hail, a torrent of steel arrows rained mercilessly upon them.

Rean hid underneath one of the stone archways of the fort. From outside, screams of pain echoed as his lightly-armored scouts were turned into pin-cushions. Blood tainted the ice. Grunts of exertion and clanking of plate armor came from his infantrymen as they pushed the debris into a makeshift rampart.

Straining his ears, he heard another scream— a battle cry. One the Imperials were all too familiar with.

"Stormcloaks!" Hadvar called out. Nocking an arrow to his bow, he fired it in the direction of assailants. "Defend the fort at all costs! "

No doubt the rebels wanted the Imperials to clear out the fort for them. It made strategic sense; not only could they strike while their opponents were worn out from the dragon fight, but they can also capture the Dragonborn if things went well. Rean could admire their resolve. What the Stormcloaks cannot gain through the Legion's numbers, they fought with guile and tenacity.

It reminded him of the jaegers corps back home.

He sighed and stepped out into the field.

Seeing his familiar form, Hadvar shouted again. He knew what his reckless Captain would do, but his sore arms told him to let it be. He ordered the men to fall back.

An arrow grazed Rean's cheek. It stung like hell. He wanted to run— to negotiate. Anything other to fight.

His legs carried him forward, however. He drew the katana from its sheath. It had been a while since he last used it— his trump card. A pissed off catgirl was honestly scarier than the group of barbaric men that wanted him dead.

_Don't get mad, Celine!_

Rean cusped a hand over his chest. Then, a pounding heartbeat. The thorny headache fettered his mind, as was usual. He bit his lips to suppress it. Emma had called the energy 'mana'. It was different from the magicka of this world— and Rean always felt that using it broke the laws of this universe.

He didn't care.

With a roar, a dark crimson aura suffused his entire being. His eyes shot open. They were blood red with rage. An incorporeal wind blew his hair back, the raven strands turning ashen-white.

Spirit Unification.

He held Dragonbane with the flat of the blade parallel to the ground. Leaning as far as he could, he observed his targets.

Human, as they should be. They were all the way up the hill through the trees, but the distance hardly mattered.

What was it again? Oh, right.

Whirlwind. Fury. Tempest.

" **WUUD RA KEST!"**

The words boomed from his lungs and echoed across the lands. Like a whirlwind, Rean sprinted forwards, his body as light as air. The cold gale on his cheeks burned with every step he took. His legs moved further onwards, almost mechanically— all in less time than a man could blink.

He skidded to a stop, blowing the snow underneath his heels. Angling slightly to the left, he rushed forward again, this time with his own power.

" _Second form…"_

The first cut was always the worst.

Blood flicked away from the tip of his blade, staining the blue armor of the Stormcloaks. Rean flashed to the next soldier nearest to him— then the next, and the next. Each and every one of them crying in anguish as a massive gash cleaved across their bodies.

They had been in a tight formation, as expected of a trained army.  _They were only soldiers,_  Rean reminded himself. Probably with loving families waiting for them to come home. With bright children that proudly regarded them as heroes.

None of them were  _evil_ ; they only fought for what they believed was right. The Imperials were doing the same. And so was him.

Did the Stormcloaks really deserve to be cut down because of their clashing ideals?

No. They didn't. Not one bit. Rean realized that long ago.

But this was  _war._

He was distracted, Rean knew; his movements were muscle memory. He shouted again as a rippling shockwave swept from his slash.

"... _Arcane Gale!"_

Everything— the trees, the air, and the faces of his enemies— was torn in half.

* * *

The Frozen Hearth was a quiet inn. It was one of the few buildings left before the Sea of Ghosts swallowed up the majority of Winterhold. Other than the College, the inn was the only place one could get luxurious commodities like shelter, not-frozen food, tepid freshwater, a fireplace, and, really,  _warmth in general_.

Not that the stone chairs and brittle wood walls were doing the customer any favors. Celine poked at her boiled fish.

"...He's late."

She even hired a courier to deliver to the exact date, address, and time of their meeting. Celine did not like spending gold on such dumb things— despite the fact that the septims were almost bursting from her coin sack. Her recent foray with the Thieves Guild had been quite lucrative, so the desire to spend won out against her integrity.

Not much to do but irritatingly wait, Celine stabbed her brand-new dagger on the table. The lusterless ebony blade radiated a cool, but deadly aura.

The stinking Nord that tried to approach her scurried off with his tail between his legs.

If it wasn't for her cat ears, she would have worn her hood at all times. She was small, true, but she wasn't a helpless little girl. The constant influx of idiots thinking she was, however, made for easy pickings of gold from their pockets. That's how she met Brynjolf, enthusiastic scouter and recruiter for the Thieves Guild.

The Guild operated all around Tamriel, looting and plundering to their hearts galore. Their reputation and information network came in handy for her. If anyone could find the location of a seemingly rare artifact like the Elder Scroll, it would be the best thieves in Skyrim.

Plus, their armor was cozy on the skin.

She opened the book she had read a hundred times over.  _Ruminations on the Elder Scrolls._ It was their only lead on where such an artifact might be located. Fortunately, a friend of their former guild master pointed them to where she might find the author.

 _Unfortunately_ though, their man, Septimus Signus, was as loony as his writings made him appear.

"Welcome to the Frozen Hearth. If there's anything you need, just let me know," the innkeeper said aloud. She moved her eyes from her book towards the new arrival.

The man dusted off the snow on his black armor and shook his raven hair dry. Red cuts were fresh on his cheeks. He offered the innkeeper a practiced smile. "Thank you. I'll have an ale if you have some."

"Coming right up!"

Celine stared at him sternly. He sat down opposite her with a sheepish grin on his face.

"Just one, I promise," Rean said.

Cat eyes narrowed. "Don't blame me if you become a Sara. How many times have I told you that you should stop drinking?" Celine said. She pointed a clawed nail to his bleeding cheek. "And what's this? Please tell me you didn't put yourself in any MORE danger than you usually are!"

She couldn't care less that her voice was too loud in the ghostly inn. "And lastly… YOU'RE LATE!"

Rean waved her off with a chuckle. He was saved from the verbal mincing when the innkeeper came with a mug of ale. He drank it  _very_ slowly.

"I keep telling you to  _at least_ learn some basic healing spells; they could save your life!" Celine continued. Her ears drooped as she frowned. "I don't know what I'd do if I find out you were seriously hurt."

Rean choked on his drink.

A blush exploded on her face. She stammered out her words, putting a new spin on the phrase 'cat got your tongue', "I-I-I-I mean… it's a hassle! Healing you all the time is getting annoying! Yeah, SUPER annoying!"

An explanation, a touch of healing magic and a slap—in that order— later, Celine got up and flicked a septim towards the innkeeper as a tip. "A-anyway, we're traveling north. Leave Frost here and we can buy supplies along the way."

* * *

By supplies, she meant novice Restoration spellbooks.

The snowy trail was as treacherous as the wolves stalking the area. Luckily, being a mage specializing in fire spells, keeping them away was more of a chore than a threat. Celine focused her magicka more into her torch, the bellowing flame serving as their deterrent and source of heat in the dastardly cold.

After buying— and forcing— Rean to study the first few pages of the most basic healing spell, the two of them bought an extra layer of clothing. The temperature up north was even worse than up in the mountains, possibly because of the constant winds brought by the sea. Which presented to them a problem, one she had anticipated.

"...We're going the right way, right?" Rean asked. Understandably so, as the dark Sea of Ghosts moaned ominously before them.

"There's an outpost further up," she said. Celine snuggled her fur coat more and held up a hand. A blue ethereal trail stretched out from her palm across the abyssal waters. It was one of her favorites;  _Clairvoyance_ , a spell that allows the caster to see the quickest route to a desired location. While admittedly useless compared to a map, it helped her a bunch of times when she needed to find an exit after robbing a house. "Almost there."

"So… we're gonna swim?"

In the freezing waters of death? Was Rean an idiot? She already knew both answers. "I think there are some icebergs we can use to walk on." Her tail wagged to the side as she turned to face him, "I'm going to cast a spell so— Huh?!"

Let it be known that Celine was not a voyeur. She did not use her being a cat to spy on the boys of Class VII. The thought never crossed her mind.

Which was why she definitely wasn't interested in Rean's amazing pectoral muscles. She covered her eyes out of embarrassment for  _him. "_ WH-WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!"

Rean was doing just that: stripping off his armor as if doing so in front of a girl was as natural as breathing. "I can't swim with my armor on, Celine."

He wasn't sure whether the ice could take the weight too. Better safe than sorry saved their lives in this unknown world.

"PERVERT! CREEP! STUPID DENSE HAREM PROTAGONIST!"

Aidios only knows how long she had wanted to insult Rean with the last one.

It rocked him to the core.

Mouth agape, Rean fell forward, the reflex failing him when the wildly blushing cat girl had kicked him from behind. He expected a splash, along with bone-chilling sensation— like that time he unknowingly took a shower with the heater busted.

What he got instead was a splattering thud. His face was flat on top of the water; the shallows were visible underneath. Waving his palms around caused small ripples to appear on the glossy surface. Rean pushed himself up as if he was on the ground— he was at sea _._

"Waterwalking," Celine said. A wispy aura enveloped her tiny form and she too was standing atop the water's surface. Nose scrunched in exasperation, she stomped ahead without sparing a glance back. "You've got an hour, so put your damn clothes back on and MOVE."

He didn't move and instead stared at his reflection. If Rean had to describe it, it was like he was laying on a lightly-flooded tile floor. All five senses screamed at him that he should be wet, but the water slid off his skin as if he was coated in some sort of slippery substance.

He prodded a tense foot forward. The water jiggled.

...

"...This is SO weird!" he finally shouted.

Well… what  _wasn't_ weird in Skyrim?

* * *

One hour was plenty of time. Half of it was spent getting Rean's bearings on the wobbly yet solid water floor.

The outpost was on a glacier the size of a small island. A breeze swirled around them and brought along with it the sound of horkers. There was barely any light except for the two torches flickering above the wooden entrance of a cave.

Celine rapped her fist on the triangular hatch. There wasn't an answer so she knocked again. Still nothing.

"It doesn't seem like it's locked so…"

With a light pull, the door opened with a creak.

Celine sighed. This was it. Weeks of effort coming into fruition. Septimus was their last hope of finding the Elder Scroll— and their way back home. She just couldn't get rid of that nervous feeling in her gut as if something bad was about to happen.

Yes, she told herself that guy was a freak for choosing to live here. Yes, she wasn't crazy for thinking so. And yes. That was just how crazy humans worked.

Could she handle crazy though?

"Hm? What's wrong, Rean?"

Rean was gawking at the entrance. He probably didn't even realize it, but his hands were already on the hilt of his sword. "You're sure he's inside…" He gulped. "... _there?"_

"Pretty sure." Celine surveyed the area. The only foreboding thing around was the dark tunnel in front of them. It wasn't the most comforting of places and the icy floor undoubtedly made the climb treacherous, but she figured they could handle it. "What about it?"

Rean had a rare panicked and nervous expression. It disappeared with a frantic shake of his head. "I might just be imagining things. Sorry…"

Remember what she said about crazies? Yeah, she wasn't feeling so confident now. "Let's try and make it quick. Ask him about the Elder Scroll, and we'll be in and out in a jiffy."

He still looked worried. Rean grabbed her by the hand and held it securely. "Okay… just stay close, alright?"

"Got it, chief."

Careful for any traps, the two of them slowly made their way through the tunnel. It was darker except for their torch, though not for very long. They came across a room that was illuminated by sunlight seeping through the ice cracks. The path spiraled downwards into a dug clearing, and there, crouched in front of a large cube-like structure, was a hooded man. He was tinkering with something.

"That's him," Celine pointed out.

It fell on Rean's deaf ears. His eyes seemed to be fixated on Septimus for some reason. They were blank as if staring into space. He held her hand tighter.

Septimus Signus was a forgettable old geezer if she were to put it bluntly. His graying beard was frosted from the cold and he was wearing the standard violet garb of mages. He appeared to be juggling something in his hands. The way he did so wasn't unnatural for a person, but what made it freaky was that he was shouting at no one in particular.

To himself maybe?

Ignoring the madman for a bit, Celine studied the giant cube next to him. It looked mechanical and it didn't take long for her to realize that it was because the cube was Dwemer made. She heard about there being a lock and key, so she assumed that the cube was some sort of lockbox. Hidden within were Dwemer secrets, probably, and Septimus was trying to open it.

It didn't matter. What they wanted from him was a location on the Elder Scroll, nothing more. Rean was still rooted on the spot so Celine tugged on his arm to get him moving.

They needed to hurry, Celine thought. Any minute now and the crazy might affect  _her._

The mad scholar turned to face them with an oblong mouth. The object he was juggling plopped harmlessly to the floor. With shifting eyes, he mumbled something incoherently.

Hiding behind Rean, Celine bowed her head politely. "Hello."

"When the top level was built, no more could be placed. It was and is the maximal apex," Septimus said.

"Uhm…"

"The Elder Scroll… yes, yes."

Her ears perked up at the confirmation. They haven't even said anything yet. "You have it? Here?" she asked, still wary as the man edged closer to them.

Septimus held up a finger. "I've seen enough to know their fabric. The warp of air, the weft of time. But no, it is not in my possession."

The first half made zero sense, but at least the second half told them everything they needed. Celine wagged her tail to rein in her impatience. "But, you know where it is?"

"Yes.  _Here._ Mundus, Tamriel." Septimus cackled and gazed at her like she was a small child. "On a cosmological scale, everything is nearby!" he shouted as he took another step forward.

Celine took one back. She glared at him fiercely. "… Are you all right?"

The man cackled harder— louder. The unsettling laughter was echoing off the walls, and so did his voice when he alternated between yelling and whispering. "Well! I am well! Well, well well. Well to be within the will inside the walls."

"Hey, you say something." Talking was going nowhere, fast. Celine decided to place her luck on Rean's. He was used to dealing with people like him. "...Rean?"

No response. Rean was still in a daze.

"WELL, WELL, I AM WELL!" Septimus bellowed again.

Surprised, Celine ducked and covered her ears. The madman was rambling again. She couldn't understand a word he was saying, but she did recognize the sound of footsteps. They drew nearer.

She had unsheathed her dagger when Septimus stopped.

"...Well, I can't say the same for your friend, though," he said.

As abrupt as his madness, his tone became several times more serious. His expression turned lucid as he pointed a wrinkled finger at Rean.

"What do you— "

— was all Celine could say before a sharp rasp of steel silenced her voice.

Her wide eyes barely caught it as he lunged forward. Her blood ran cold. She screamed at him to stop... but it was too late.

A katana stabbed Septimus right through the heart.


End file.
